On Edge
by aerodynamics
Summary: Tragedy always strikes in threes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is dedicated to my best bud for life, Cheap Indifference. Have a very happy fucking birthday. Half of twenty is only ten—and by that logic, you're still younger than me. I love you more than you'll ever know. Flames are welcome. Point out any and all mistakes.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.

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><p><em>Jan. 1969<em>

The truck catches fire five miles outside of Oklahoma City, on some road I've never heard of. Angela's standing on my right, and Mark's standing on my left, all of us stock-still and waiting. Dark hot flames are licking up under the hood, the heat already thick and dense enough that it might melt my face off if I stand any closer.

Our car is totaled. It's not ours, really—we stole it. But it doesn't matter, because now it's a heap of twisted metal, and I'm lucky nobody is seriously hurt. Angela's forehead is bleeding; she smashed her head on the dashboard pretty good, but she's alright. I can tell by the way she's cussing at me, saying this is all so fucked up.

I want to tell her that I know, but everything is shaking so badly I feel like I might choke on my tongue if I try to say anything. Mark looks over his shoulder, antsy, and gives my sweater a tug.

"We should go," he says, wrinkling his nose, his words half slurred together. It's the best idea any of us have had all night. The smell of burning flesh is starting to creep into the air, and it takes me back to playing chicken with Curly.

I stupidly follow Angela and Mark down through the ditch and into the corn field, and I know that this time, I won't be caught.

* * *

><p>Angela phones Tim because she's scared and the only one of us that has any sense. I don't know where in the hell we are, but we're standing outside by some pay phone that looks like it's seen better days. But it's working, which is all I give a shit about.<p>

Mark's pacing, swearing, stopping every few steps to kick at the street lamp. He's soaked right through his jacket and sweater because of the rain; and his matches won't light and his cigarette looks soggy.

"Mark," I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. "Stop it. Calm down."

"Calm down?" He turns around sharply and points at me with his smoke pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "This is your fault."

I blink at him and shove my hands into my pockets, feeling my ears heat up. He's right about it being my fault; I was the one behind the wheel, the one that ran the stop sign, the one that thought one more for the road was a good idea.

Angela loops her arm with mine and glares at Mark. "You're in this just as much as he is," she spits. "We both are."

But Mark's right. I can't help but thinking about the person I killed—if they had a family, where they were going, what they were doing. Mostly, though, I wonder if they were scared and if their fear was the same fear I've always imagined my parents feeling right before they died.

Because nobody dies instantly.

* * *

><p>Tim pulls up in front of us with Marty Fox in the front seat, looking pale, and sick, and in so much pain I can't help but feel bad for him. I don't know much about Marty, other than him being Tim's second in command, but he has a younger brother named Lee that Curly and I hang out with.<p>

I watch Marty climb out of the car, face twisted, hand on his side as if that's going to make him stop hurting. Tim gives his shoulder a clap, and I think he looks either relieved or worried, or even both. Jane and Curly are with them, except Jane doesn't get out. She rolls the window down and sticks her hand out, waving at me.

"Hey, Ponykid," she says brightly, smiling. "Rumor has it you fucked up."

"Glory, news travels fast around here." I lean up against the side of the car and swat at her hand as she laughs at me. "This ain't funny."

She looks up at me and shakes her head. "You're right—it's hilarious."

It occurs to me then that I have no idea what Angela told Tim. I don't think this is something that Tim can fix; it's out of his control. Someone is dead because of me, because I didn't use my head, and the cops are going to find out before long. I'll either get thrown into the state pen, or get the chair—and either way, I know I deserve whatever's coming.

"You wanna see somethin' that's really funny?" Marty nudges me, forcing a grin, his voice tight and dry. "Check it out."

He lifts his shirt up and all I can see is a bloody rectangle of bandage, with nothing funny about it. But he's still grinning as if he's proud, as if he thinks maybe it'll make me feel better.

Jane pokes at it. "There's nothing funny about getting shot, Martin Fox."

I feel my stomach drop and my head starts to spin. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I think I might be sick. Marty sighs as he puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Tim and I got a plan," he says quietly. "It'll be like none of this ever happened."

* * *

><p>Angela's telling Tim where to go. I have my head against the window, watching the ground rush by. Vaguely, I wonder how fast Tim's driving, if maybe someone will come along and blindside us, and why the hell Tim is helping us. He should be beating my head in for getting his kid sister into this mess.<p>

Fuck. I nudge Jane and look at her wide-eyed. "Don't tell my brothers." I'm practically begging. "Don't tell anybody."

She just puts her head on my shoulder, smiling. "I won't tell a soul, Ponykid."

* * *

><p>The truck is smoldering, sitting exactly where we left, on this wire-fence road I don't remember driving down. Mark is in the car, burning through his smokes, and I feel as if I'm in some sort of a stupor, detached from the reality of what I've done.<p>

"What were you driving, kid?" Tim asks me, looking around.

I swallow. "A Plymouth."

He scowls at me. "I don't see no Plymouth, Curtis."

I can't breathe. My mouth is dry and I can't keep the panic down. Angela starts pacing, cussing, asking Tim if this is some kind of a fucking joke.

I stagger off toward the car and lean in the window. "Mark…" I rub my face and slam my fist against the car. "The car we stole is fucking gone."

His eyes are red-rimmed and wide. "Bull-fucking-shit." He throws the car door open, looking like he might hit me. "That's bullshit."

It doesn't make sense. A car doesn't just grow legs and walk away.

"What if the fuzz got it?"

"Shut up, Mark," I snap, because that's the dumbest thing I think I've ever heard. "The fuzz ain't gonna take one car and not the other."

And they aren't going to leave behind a dead body.

* * *

><p>Jane and Curly come stumbling out from the cornfield, shaking their heads, but I can tell they didn't go looking for the car. They look too happy, too satisfied. I could shake them both.<p>

Marty has on bright yellow kitchen gloves, and he's trying to get the body out of the truck. It's half burned and stuck to the seat, and I don't know how he and Tim can keep their stomachs. This isn't normal.

"There's no car anywhere, Tim," Curly says, and he cringes when Marty drops the charred skull. "There ain't no marks or nothin'."

Tim looks unconcerned. He shoves a pair of thick gardening gloves at Curly and scratches his jaw. "Didn't think there would be."

Curly pulls the gloves on. "I hope you got your shit figured out," he says, cracking his knuckles.

Tim just smirks and watches Marty stuff what he can of the body in the garbage bag. I swallow and look at Jane instead. She's fixing her hair in the mirror, and I can see the hickeys on her neck.

"Where's Mark and Angela at?" Curly asks.

"Went for a walk," I tell him, thinking they were the smart ones and that I should have gone with them.

Tim narrows his eyes when Marty hisses and presses a hand to his side, curling in on himself. He lights a smoke and wrinkles his nose, and he lifts Marty's shirt up enough to see the bandage. It's bright red and starting to peel away from his skin. I swear I see Tim pale, thinking maybe he's even starting to look as sick as I feel. Marty looks worried, and I know he's relying on Tim to tell him he'll be okay. Because Tim's never wrong.

"Take it easy, Martian," Tim says, handing him his smoke. "Give your gloves to the kid and go clean yourself up."

"Me?" I think this might do me in and finally make me sick; I don't know the first thing about cleaning up dead bodies.

But Marty shoves the gloves at me and shrugs as he walks off.

"I ain't letting my best friend bleed to death because you were too stupid to pay attention to a fucking stop sign." Tim's eyes are livid. "Get your ass moving. Now."

I have a feeling this isn't part of the plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Flames are welcome. This is dedicated to Cheap Indifference; she is easily the reason I still write. Point out any and all mistakes! Thanks.

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.

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><p><em>Jan. 1969<em>

It's an ungodly hour. Jane's asleep in the car, with her head against the window, and Mark's laying stretched out on the hood, talking to Marty, who just won't stop bleeding. They look less than content, too tense and too on edge. None of them should be here; Darry always tells me that if I make a mess it's my responsibility to clean it up.

Angela's getting sick in the corn field. Curly's holding her hair back. I can hear her retching her guts out, and even though I've never been particularly fond of her, I feel about a million different kinds of guilty. She's just a girl who's too young and too scared to be involved with this. The rest of us know what we're doing; we've seen death enough times to be able to handle it.

"What the hell were you doing in a stolen car, Curtis?" Tim asks, snuffing out his smoke. He's trying hard not to grin. "Ain't one murder wrap enough for you?"

One is one too many. I don't know how to tell him that not everybody is like him and his boys—they don't run around planning to kill people. It was an accident. But that's not something you say to the guy who just helped you cover up a crime scene; that's not something you say to Tim Shepard period. I like my teeth in my jaw and my jaw connected to the rest of my face.

I scuff at the ground with the toe of my sneaker. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Truth is I just don't want to talk about it. It's easier to pretend there's no real reason, as if I'm just another no-count hood on the East side with nothing better to do than steal a car on a Friday night. But I have a reason—not for killing someone, but for everything else. And I think that if Tim knew what was going on, he'd understand. Because he isn't like everyone else, as I've come to know. He understands just about everything.

"I'm sure it did." He grimaces and gives me a hard look. "I ever catch you pullin' this shit with my kid sister again, it'll be the last thing you do."

I nod, looking at my shoes, letting the cold fill me. "It won't happen again, Tim."

"How do you figure Superman'll take it?"

I choke on something hard and let the reality of it sink into my stomach. Sooner or later, my brother is going to find out, but I can't think of the consequences. I feel like I've let him down again.

"I don't suppose this could stay between you and me?"

Tim just shakes his head, offering me a smoke. I tuck it behind my ear before I turn on my heel and join Angela in the cornfield.

* * *

><p>Jane has her head in my lap, staring up at me with the same grey eyes as her brother's.<p>

"You don't look so well, Pone." She presses her palm to my cheek and sighs. "A little death and you get all milk and cookies on me."

A little death? Milk and cookies? I flick her between the eyes and lean my head back on the seat.

"Here." She shifts around and pulls a soggy looking stick of gum from her pocket. "Merry Christmas."

I pop the gum into my mouth, feel little bits of sand crunch between my teeth. "Your brother is gonna shit when he finds out what you were doing tonight."

She grins at me. "Like I said—I won't tell if you won't tell."

I manage a smile. "What they don't know, right?"

"Sure," she says, closing her eyes again. "Besides, it ain't like I killed anyone."

She pauses. Cracks open an eye. "Too soon?"

* * *

><p>Always joke about the serious stuff—Two-Bit taught me that. I'm sitting at Buck's, listening to him talk. He's completely blitzed, saying that it's a special occasion and that's the only reason he's let himself get this bad. He tells me he's surprised I'm not three sheets to the wind considering. Considering.<p>

Curly slaps a beer down in front of me. He's never been particularly bright. "Don't turn your nose up at it, Curtis," he says, capping his with his house key. "I spent good money on that."

I feel like taking the bottle and hurling it across the room. But there are people here, some watching, and I don't want to cause a scene, so I let it sit and thank Curly just the same. He tips his bottle toward me and takes a drink, and I wonder how people like us get thrown into situations like this. All I can think is that we're kids—or we were. I remember Curly falling off the telephone pole, Curly going to a reformatory, Curly with the inescapable reputation to live up to.

And I think about how this is our escape, how people like us get away from the reality of actually being us. Darry has always told me to stay away from Buck's, but I feel almost like I belong here, like it's a separate sort of world where whatever happens doesn't matter, because none of us have anything to lose. I can see why Dallas spent all his time here.

I give Curly a hollow look. "Think your brother is really gonna rat me out?"

"Nah." Curly snickers. "He wants you to think he will so you'll tell Darry yourself."

I rub my face, watching Two-Bit trip over a barstool and swear. He's been a wreck for the last three years.

And he got his draft yesterday.

* * *

><p>Tim sits me down in one of the rooms in the back of Buck's place and says we need to talk. I don't want to talk; I want to go home and forget for even a minute that for the second time in three years someone is dead because of me. Because I don't think things through and never have—and hasn't that always been my problem?<p>

I push a breath through my teeth, sitting down stiffly. The room smells foul, like sex and cigarettes and beer that's been left to sit for too long. I don't know how anyone can stand it and think that someone ought to get on Buck's ass about cleaning, because this isn't hygienic.

"Look, kid," Tim starts, shutting the door. "You ain't got many options."

"I know." I wipe my palms on my jeans because they're clammy. "I know. Fuck."

He scratches his jaw and sits across from me. "Running is one of them."

Running. I put my head in my hands and almost believe I'm considering it. Dallas told me one summer that sometimes the only solution to a problem is to run, and that was how he'd ended up in Tulsa. But I'd seen how far running had gotten me before—how far running had gotten Dallas, and Johnny, and Bob. They'd all been running from something, mostly themselves, and they were dead because of it. That is not going to be me.

"I'm not running, Tim," I say firmly, wringing my hands together. "I can't."

I have too much going for me. There's University in the fall, and I've been working part time at the DX with Soda and Steve, trying to help put me through school. I don't know the first thing about cars, other than gas makes them go and oil is like their blood, but it keeps me close to Soda, and with this war, time is so limited. I can't run again.

Tim nods and cracks his neck. "I thought you might say that." He sucks his tongue over his teeth and looks at the door as Marty slips into the room. "I thought I told you to fuckin' stay in bed?"

Marty looks awful pale. He sits beside me and shakes his head, and both Tim and I can see he's still bleeding like some kind of slaughtered swine. "And miss this? No way."

Tim lets him off, huffing a bitter sound, and turns his attention back to me. "If you ain't runnin', then you're waitin'."

I watch Marty's head lull, but he's laughing. "We could pull some Al Capone shit," he says. "Frame some real unfortunate cocksucker. Gangsters do it all the time."

It looks like Tim might be considering it. They have enemies from here to the Arctic Circle that I'm sure they'd appreciate knocking off their lists of people to worry about. I'd get off as if none of this ever happened. I see shit like this in movies all the time—except this isn't a movie. This is real, and no matter what happens, it all comes back to me.

"We have to find the car, Tim," I tell him, glancing at the clock hanging lopsided on the wall. "Where the hell does a car go?"

He shrugs, and I know he doesn't have an answer. "It'll show up." He sounds so sure. "Cars don't just up and disappear, Curtis. You know that."

Marty makes a noise as if he agrees, lifting up his shirt over the bandaging Tim had to redo three times.

"Tim…" His breathing sounds labored and his eyes start to roll, so all I can see are the whites. "I don't feel too hot, man."

"I know, Martian." Tim stands up and hoists Marty out of his chair. "I told you to take it easy."

He just hums in response, resting his head on Tim's shoulder. "I'll take it easy when I'm dead."

Tim rolls his eyes, trying to shake Marty awake. "You ain't dyin' on me, Fox." He tosses me the keys from his pocket. "Let's go, Curtis."

I blink, wondering if this is some kind of a goddamned joke. Tim should be the one driving. As far as I'm concerned, the last place I should be is behind the wheel, and I vow right then and there that I'm never driving again. But there's no saying that to Tim Shepard. Besides, there's still so much to think about, to talk about. Waiting and running—those don't seem like very good options to me.

Marty shoves himself away from Tim and throws up, and then he's out cold, and Tim is cursing enough to make my face burn. There's a lot of blood. I've always been astounded with how much blood is in the human body. It almost seems like it's too much.

I clutch the keys tightly and figure helping save a life cancels out taking one.

But I can see the flaw in that logic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exceptions.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>This is once again dedicated to Cheap Indifference, who continues to give me the kick I need to keep writing. Flames are welcome. Please point out any and all mistakes. Let the record show that I am not a fan of this chapter in the slightest. Reviews would really be something.

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><p><em>Jan. 1969<em>

I've missed curfew by an hour and know Darry is going to turn the neighbourhood on its head looking for me if I don't phone home soon. But part of me doesn't care; I have more important things to worry about than coming home late and getting into an argument with my brother. It's just the tip of the iceberg, truthfully, and if I'm in it this far, why not go the whole nine yards?

"How'd Marty end up shot, Tim?" I ask, breaking the silence. We're sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, smoking, staring off into space. Nurses come and go, some staring at us, some not caring enough to, and none of them come talk to us, to Tim, to say how Marty is doing.

"It was an accident." Tim rests his head in his hands, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy. "One big fat fucking accident."

I lick my lips, nodding. "I'm sure he'll forgive you," I say quietly, staring at my lap. "You didn't shoot him on purpose."

Tim stiffens, and I don't know what to do, thinking this might be enough to make the infamous Tim Shepard remember how to cry. He's lost a lot, and by a lot, I mean Dallas. I never really thought before how it weighed on him, but now I know. It's what separates Tim from the rest of the people at Buck's and on our side of town; he's always had something to lose.

"I don't even know how it happened." He scowls. "But that's how these fuckin' things work, ain't it? You never really know how it happened."

"Yeah..." I don't know what else to say, and I can feel Tim staring at the side of my face, the silence pulsing like a heartbeat around us.

He shifts. "Friends ain't supposed to shoot friends."

"You didn't mean to." I study my fingers, feeling like I'm talking more to myself than to him—like I'm trying to convince myself that this is all one big accident. "He ain't going to hold it against you."

"Maybe he oughta."

* * *

><p>I call Darry from a payphone down the hall. Tim's pacing in the waiting room—I had to borrow a quarter from him.<p>

"Where are you?" He sounds half asleep, like he doesn't even remember I'm supposed to be home.

I twirl the cord around my finger. "The hospital." I regret it as soon as I say it. "I had to drive Mar—"

He cuts me off with a loud, strenuous-sounding sigh, and then, "Get your ass home safe," and I can just imagine him slunk down in his armchair, rubbing the knot of pressure out of his temple. "Pick up some milk on your way."

"Alright." I glance back at Tim. "How's Soda?"

I hear Darry draw a shaky breath. "He's watching Ed Sullivan," he says and clears his throat. "Hasn't eaten a damned thing all day."

I press my teeth into my tongue, figuring I can ask a nurse for some Aspirin. "He'll snap out of it." But I don't really believe it.

"Two-Bit got his notice, you know."

Pause. Breathe through the hurt. I almost tell him that I was the one who told him about Two-Bit's draft, but I can't. Darry's losing it, forgetting things. It's one of those defence mechanisms—suppress and suppress until he doesn't remember all the things he just can't handle anymore. I keep waiting for the day he wakes up and doesn't remember being my brother.

"Do we throw them a goodbye party?" I ask, leaning against the wall.

"We through them a fucking funeral, Ponyboy."

I bite my lips together, wiping my eyes and wondering how the hell he can say that.

"Just come home safe," he says. "Bring milk."

I breathe through my nose. "You said that already."

He hangs up.

* * *

><p>The nurse shuffles into the waiting room a little after seven in the morning. She licks her lips, flipping through her clipboard, and doesn't look at me or Tim.<p>

"Martin Zade Fox..." she mutters to herself, _flip, flip, flip. _"Right."

I can tell she's tired. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and stifles a yawn. Tim looks like he's ready to lunge from his seat and grab the damned clipboard from her. I've never seen him this uptight, this anything. His leg is bouncing, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. I start wishing Two-Bit was here; he'd know what to say, what joke to make so everything seems okay, even if it isn't. I imagined he'd say that people get shot all the time, but Marty ain't like most people. Marty's a fighter, has shit to live for.

Or maybe Two-Bit wouldn't say that, because I don't think he cares about much of anything anymore. But that's life, and it has a funny way of changing people.

"Well?" Tim leans forward, urging the nurse to say something. "Tell me what in the fuck is goin' on."

She swallows loudly; she's nervous. "He's lost a lot of blood," she says finally, struggling to meet Tim's gaze. "Does he have any family, anybody the hospital can contact?"

"I'm his brother," Tim spits, like it's a fucking sin for her not to know that.

I think it's because she doesn't want to argue with someone like Tim that she nods and tries her best to smile like she understands. She _flip, flip, flips _through the clipboard again, chewing her cheek.

"Then I'll take a blood sample from you," she says, "and we'll see what can be done after that."

Guilt is an ugly thing.

* * *

><p>All I can think is <em>stay down<em>, willing every muscle in my body not to move, not to flinch. The floor is cold and hard under my cheek, and I breathe as slowly and quietly as I can. I can't hear through the ringing in my ears, can only see people rush back and forth, try to place words to mouths and understand what the hell is going on.

The gun went _bang_. I look at Tim. He's red-eyed and stiff, staring at the blood on his hands. His mouth moves, and nothing comes out. This isn't an accident, all intentional in the worst way.

"Tim..."

He looks at me, breathing heavy. Blood leaks like red wine from his nose, and I shut my eyes tightly, trying to hear through the ringing. I used to have dreams like this, where somebody was dying and I had to find their heart, because I knew it was somewhere, beating strong and steady; and if I could just get the damned thing back in their chest, they'd live.

But this isn't a dream. Tim hauls me to my feet and wipes his hands on his shirt. There are two men at the end of the hallway, duking it out with the police, and the doctors and nurses are trying to pump the life back into Marty. I stagger backwards, looking around, feeling frenzied and outside of my body. There are unseen forces at work here, things that go beyond running a stop sign and driving drunk.

Tim starts pulling me toward the emergency exit, and I can't keep up. The ringing gives way to faded screaming, muffled cursing, and an alarm going off somewhere. It's cold outside, the sky dry and grey looking, puddles splashing under my feet.

"Get in the car," Tim hisses, unlocking the door quickly.

"What—"

"Shut your mouth and get in the fucking car."

I collapse into the passenger seat and glare at Tim as he turns the engine. "What the hell did you get me into?"

He throws the car into reverse, swings us around. The tires squeal alive-like and shrill, and the smell of burnt rubber hits me like brick wall. He cuts onto the highway—some asshole honks and flashes his lights at us, and I think that everything in the universe has been shaken and misplaced.

"We hafta find Lee." He looks over at me and narrows his eyes. "Put your seatbelt on."

"What've you and Marty done, Tim?" I fumble with the seatbelt, jam it into the clip.

He runs a red light.

"When things happen, Curtis, they happen fast—all you can do is try and hold on."

I think he might start laughing. He swings us right, the tires shrieking under us, cars blaring their horns. This is how people get killed. I put my head on the window and breathe, in, two, three, out, two, three.

Tim had let go long ago.

* * *

><p>"Lee!"<p>

Tim throws his front door open and grinds his teeth together.

"Curly? Angie?"

Angela sticks her head out of her room, picking the sleep out of her good eye. "Y'all got any idea what time it is?"

"Where's Lee?"

She looks over at me, and all I can offer her is a one-shouldered shrug. "What's goin' on?" she asks, and there is panic all over her face suddenly, like she knows all the things I don't, all the things Tim won't tell me. "Tim, where's Marty?"

"Go to Aunt Elaine's, Angie," he says, ignoring her. "Pack your things and go to Aunt Elaine's."

"Shit." She pauses. "Shit, shit, shit. You gotta be fucking kidding me, Tim?"

He stalks over to the bookcase and shakes his head as he runs his finger over the row of books. "I ain't fuckin' around, Angela," he says flatly. He stops at a red, title-less, authorless book and opens it. The inside is hollow, holds a slick .45 pistol. He shoves it Angela. "Go to your aunt's."

"What about Curly?"

_Girls with guns, _I remember Dallas telling me once, _can't be trusted. Watch your back, kid— anybody with guns, watch your fuckin' back._

"Don't worry about Curly." He sticks the book back where it belongs and pushes through his hair. "Where's Lee?"

"I don't know," she says, scratching her temple with the gun. "He could be anywhere."

"Alright." Tim turns the television off and looks around. The house is bathed in colorless light from outside. "Go to Elaine's, Angie, and don't tell nobody where you are."

She nods, swallowing briskly. Her eyes are shifty, looking all over the place, like somebody is about to pop out from somewhere at any second. "Is Marty dead?"

Tim shakes his head. "Not yet." He gives Angela's shoulder a squeeze and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Lock the door behind me and Curtis."

I turn hurriedly, my hands crammed into my pockets. My stomach turns over and over. I hear Tim telling Angela not to go anywhere except school and their aunt's house, and not a word of this to anybody. If anybody asks, she doesn't know shit. If anybody looks at her funny, shoot them. I stand in their driveway, letting the wind hit me from all sides.

Everything is cold and colorless.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own; I borrow with the odd exceptions.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is dedicated to all the birthdays this month—Al, Kris, Trae, and benignmilitancy—and of course to the person who keeps me writing, Cheap Indifference. Flames are welcome. Point out mistakes.

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><p><em>Jan. 1969<em>

Dennis Miller and Lane Cooper are looking at Tim and me like we're of a different species. They don't know where the hell Lee and Curly are, and Tim looks so impatient that he might burst into a million pieces. The headlights from our car spill all over everything. Dennis and Lane's eyes look black, soulless, like everything has been sucked right out of them. I light myself a smoke and stare past them, at Denny's stupid looking '68 New Yorker with a cherry red paint job that looks like it was done by some lackey-ass goof.

"The hell?" Curly comes staggering toward us, hiccupping and clutching a half-finished bottle of Southern Comfort like his life depends on it. "The hell you been, Tim?"

Tim scowls deeply; his face is going to end up stuck like that.

"I go home, an' there ain't nobody there," he says, pointing accusingly at us with his bottle. "I go to the warehouse, an' there ain't nobody there; I go to Buck's, an' there ain't nobody there"—he thumbs at Lane and Dennis—"an' these two goons dump me half a mile up the fuckin' highway, hardy-har-har."

He throws an arm around my shoulders and burps.

"Hey, Drunky McPukerson, you know where Lee is?"

He steals my smoke and points toward the river. "He went that-a-way, the pussy." He glares at Dennis and Lane. "If I warn't so blitzed, I'd kick yer faggot asses to Timbuktu 'n' back."

I shrug him off because he smells so bad I might start heaving my guts out. Tim grabs him by his shirt and pushes him into the backseat of the car.

"You're goin' to your aunt's, Curly," he tells him, and there's no room for arguing, for doing anything other than what he says. "Had enough of your bullshit."

I watch Tim slam the door and turn on Lane Cooper so fast my head almost spins. Something wild flashes in his eyes, a primitive fatal intent surfacing and catching in the headlights, reminding me that Tim Shepard is a natural born killer.

"I don't like liars, Lane," he growls, reaching into his waistband. He presses the end of his pistol under Lane's chin. "There's just somethin' about 'em I don't fuckin' like."

"Tim..." I pinch the underside of my forearm through my sleeve, breathing stiffly through my nose. "We don't have time for this."

He looks back at me, and I don't flinch, don't cringe—don't do anything except stare at him and hope he doesn't blow my brains out all over the front of his car. He looks old, tired. It's really too bad, and I wish things were different for him, better.

"You're lucky, Lane." He shoves Lane into Dennis and shoots him in the top of the foot, easy as 123. "Lookit it this way—least you ain't goin' to 'Nam no time soon."

I roll my eyes, unnerved and nauseous, and walk around to the passenger seat.

"You better hurry, Timothy," I hear Dennis sneer. "Lee went off to drown himself. Better hurry 'fore another Fox boy winds up dead on account of you."

Curly bolts upright in the backseat. I don't know what he thinks he's going to do, but he looks dead-set on killing Dennis.

"Remind me later, Curtis," he slurs. "Denny's dead."

* * *

><p>"Lee's dad lives by the river."<p>

Tim's like a bomb, _tick, tick, ticking _away until he detonates inside that wrought-iron shell of his. I don't who the hell Lee's dad is, not from a goddamned hole in the wall. Curly's breathing whiskey-thickened breath near my face, and the ground is soggy, squishing under my feet. The river is unusually high this time of year.

"Cheer the fuck up, Tim," Curly says, hands jammed way down in his pockets. "Marty ain't dead, and Lee ain't here to drown himself. The Fox boys ain't a dyin' breed yet."

Yet. Curly really has a way with words sometimes.

"We're all a dyin' breed, Curly," he says, flicking his collar up against the wind. "Especially you if you keep gettin' sloshed this early in the morning."

I swallow tightly and fall back a few steps, letting them duke it out with each other. It makes me wish Soda was here, that our days weren't so numbered. I wish I knew that he was coming back safely, coming back alive. Sometimes I feel sick thinking about him being gone and the things he'll have to do out there. My brother isn't a killer. He's a lot of things, but he isn't that. Sodapop can't even squish a fly without feeling bad. My friend and my brother, both off in 'Nam, killing people over something that doesn't involve us.

"Tim."

He stops and shoots me a look.

A scream cuts through the air, and two gunshots ring out from nowhere, _bang, bang. _I think about Tulsa's food chain on the east side, and Tim's right on top. He can't do what Angela did and call someone to get him out of a tough spot because there's nobody above him. My stomach is bent into cold steel knots, spiralling down into some inner oblivion. The wind hits my face and I can feel my body burning, a fever clawing its way to the surface. I hear Curly turn and puke his guts out, and I think the Shepards are all sick, all have no stomachs, all have something wrong with them. There's something wrong me too; I can taste it on the back of my tongue.

I open my mouth—something warm and dense drips over my lips. The ringing in my ears is back, Tim's mouth moving a million miles a second with nothing coming out. He's so white I don't think he's real—I don't think any of this is real except what I'm choking on and the sticky warmth all over everything. It's iron, it's blood, it's mine. I sit on the ground in a pool of red, and I watch Tim and Curly pull pistols like they've had this choreographed for years.

Curly has a hair-trigger reflex. I hear his gun go off with a _crack, _and I lay back in the sogginess, staring up at the sky without any sense of time, or space, or here and now.

"Darry's gonna be so mad." I sputter—warm red drops hit my face. "Darry's gonna be so mad if I die."

Tim kneels beside me. He's a blur in my vision, smeared colors that make my head hurt to look at. I blink through red and white spots, lights bright and flashing in my face. People are screaming, telling us not to move. I laugh; I couldn't if I tried.

"Tim." Curly sits me up against him. "It's the fuckin' cops, Tim."

"Is this an ambush?" I roll my head back on Curly's chest, pinching my eyes shut against everything. "I want my brother."

Because I'm cold, and stiff, and scared, and my worst fear has always been dying without anybody knowing. It makes me feel guilty, like they should have been warned, should have had time to prepare.

Tim drops his gun and falls like lead on top of me. Some burly cop is standing over him, and I hear the _whack _of his baton on the back of Tim's skull. Gravity pulls me down, down, down. I turn my head and throw up.

Nobody said it was going to be easy.

* * *

><p>Mark. Mark Jennings.<p>

The lights are too bright and white. My nose is raw from hospital fumes. There are tubes everywhere, and if I didn't know better, I'd ask who they belong to.

Mark is sitting at the end of the bed. I swallow, looking around stiffly. He squeezes my leg firmly, carefully, relief rolling off him in waves.

"Jesus, Ponyboy," he says. "You had us all shittin' ourselves, you know that?"

I shrug the side that hurts less. "I got shot."

"I know." He moves to the chair beside me. "Fuzz says they don't know nothin'."

The room feels tilted, turned right on its side. I remember the screaming, the gunshots, bleeding all over the place, and Tim being hauled off unconscious, but I don't remember feeling anything.

"They got Tim," I tell him, and the fever starts clawing at me again. "What about Curly?"

Mark lights himself a smoke, watching the door. The room looks lived in. Two-Bit's jacket is hanging over the back of a chair, and Soda's DX shirt his strewn over one of the machines keeping me alive, nametag still attached and all.

"Curly's at his aunt's." Mark cracks his neck. "Tim got hauled in for shootin' Marty and some shit down in Mexico. They're gonna throw the book at him when Marty dies, bring him up on first degree, just 'cause they fuckin' can."

"It was an accident, a mistake. Tim said so himself."

"Tim don't make mistakes, Pony."

That's a bunch of bullshit; Tim's human, and humans make mistakes all the goddamned time. He wouldn't shoot his second-in-command, his best friend, on purpose.

"We were looking for Lee's dad," I say gruffly.

Mark scowls. "Horseman says what?"

I flip him off. "We were lookin' for Lee's dad when I got shot."

"No shit?" He ashes his smoke at me, the prick. "Lee's been missin' 'round about three days now. Him and his old man."

Three days. I close my eyes and count to ten.

"The Foxes are involved in some real heavy shit." He pauses and laughs curtly. "They ain't so fantastic."

I stare at the ceiling, listening to the heart monitor beep as he leans forward.

"Someone tried to kill Marty again."

"This is like a giant game of fill in the fucking blanks, Mark," I say, irritated because nothing makes sense and people are dropping like flies. I stop and tell myself to breathe. "Who's here?"

"Everyone." He grins and offers me a drag. "Finally talked 'em into gettin' something to eat."

I nod; my throat feels like cotton.

"We have to pick up the pieces." I rub my temples. "Lee's dad lives by the river."

And we're going back.

* * *

><p>Reviews would be so fantastic!<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** After all this time, I still don't own "The Outsiders."  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is dedicated to the wonderful Cheap Indifference. Apologies for dropping off the face of the earth, but I promise that this story will eventually be finished. Reviews would be really awesome, because it's been a coon's age since I've had one.

* * *

><p><em>Jan. 1969<em>

The first words out of my mouth are "I'm sorry," while Darry sits there and stares at me like he doesn't know who I am anymore. It hurts to see him like this, to think that he used to have dreams, used to want to do something with his life. He's a shell, and I feel like I've been sucking the life out of him for the last three years—like he's put too much time and effort into trying to make something of me and I'm an idiot for not appreciating it, for not ever really fully understanding.

"Ponyboy..." He sighs and looks away. I watch him fight for words, fight through whatever the hell is wrong with the inside of his head that makes him so empty, so nothing. Sometimes I want to scream at him, to make him hate me just so I know he can still feel something.

"Are you mad at me?" I ask, and somewhere way deep down, I hope he is. I hope he's anything.

But he shakes his head, and I can see the gears turning, clinking around but never quite falling into place. He's lost, not knowing what's wrong with him, what's wrong with me.

"I'm not mad," he says honestly. "I'm a lot of things, but mad ain't one of them, kiddo."

"Then what?"

He pauses. I watch his eyes shift—up, down, left, right.

"What..." he repeats it to himself, not as a question—as a word he has to think over, if he can remember how. "I don't know _what,_ Ponyboy."

Age-old panic burn through me, hot and sickening, because he's supposed to know everything. The tops of my ears burn, and I grind my teeth together, counting to ten because if I don't, I'll do or say something I can't take back. That's my big brother, the one who's supposed to hold it together when Soda and I can't. It hurts being so wrong, so delusional and hung-up on nothing more than childhood stupidity. I remember Dallas telling me that I'd have to take my goddamned blinders off one day—that I'd have to wake up and realize that there comes a point in a person's life where they just have to grow the fuck _up._ And I remember he was in a million goddamned pieces, just like everybody else.

"You have to be careful, Pone," Darry says. His lips quirk into this sick little grin, and I hope like hell I'm imagining it. "You have to be so goddamned careful. There ain't too many of us left."

"Darry..."

He stops in the middle of shrugging on his jacket. If this were a movie, this is where I'd say something awe-inspiring and motivational and everybody would miraculously be okay. But this isn't a movie or anything close to it, and I'm glad because they're the things I've come to hate most, with their bullshit happy Hollywood endings.

"You'll be okay, Dar," I tell him.

I don't know whether or not he will, and I don't think he really believes me. I don't think he really cares.

"You weren't raised a liar," he says, almost laughing. "Don't start now."

The door clicks shut behind me, leaving me alone in this big empty room and wondering what in the hell is wrong with Darrel Curtis.

* * *

><p>"I ain't stayin' with my aunt."<p>

Curly hands me a smoke, the dumb shit.

"No way in fuckin' hell," he says, crumpling the empty carton in his hand. "Tim thinks I'm stayin' there—he's got another thing coming."

"Shit for brains," Mark says, opening the window. "All you goddamned Shepards—shit for brains."

Curly snorts. "Shoot, Jennings."

He looks just like Tim. Could probably be him if his eyes weren't so shifty. Tim's always had a hard stare, even when he's scared and confused and can't tell his head from his ass. But Curly's just some scared little puke, a lousy imitation of his older brother, even if he has heart and even if it's one of the most remarkable things about him.

"This is just upsetting." Mark slides a chair up beside Curly and snaps his jaw. He grabs my smoke and lights it for himself. "If they can get Tim, they can get anybody."

"That's what I used to think about Dallas," I say, mostly mumbling, and I look between the two of them. "Sometimes people slip—even the best."

Curly narrows his eyes and mutters something, shaking his head in something that might be disgust. "When you gettin' outta here, Curtis?" he asks. "This place is makin' you funny."

I shrug. "Any day now."

"I don't like hospitals," he says. "They make me feel... icky."

Marks cusses under his breath, rolling his eyes. This would all be so normal if I wasn't stuck in this bed, listening to the monotonous_ beep, beep, beep_ of the heart monitor.

"Anyways, I talked to Martian..." Curly pauses and sighs heavily, shifting around in his seat. "He prattled off some bullshit about his old man and his old lady."

I rub my face. This won't ever end, ever make any sense. There's not much I'm sure of anymore, all these things that just don't seem to want to add up.

"Maybe it's not bullshit," I say, staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe we're all just fucking crazy."

Crazy—I'm starting to think we have to be.

"There used to be rules, you know," Curly says, sounding so matter-of-fact. "Tim always stressed that there used to be fucking rules..."

Marks sneers. "You don't make sense when you talk, Curly," he says. "Rules—what goddamned rules? If there were rules, I'd like to know just what in the hell happened." He stops and shakes his head, grumbling. "Weren't never no rules."

"What do you know?" Curly ashes his smoke on the floor. "All you do is run around pushin' your goddamned pills. The sky could start coming down right on your inflated head, and you wouldn't even fucking realize it."

I want to bash both their heads together. They're both overgrown brats.

Curly bites at his cheek. "There used to be rules," he repeats. "No women, no kids."

"And?"

"Put the pieces together, Curtis." He looks at me, flat and cold, like there isn't anything inside of him anymore. "Marty's old lady is dead—do I hafta fucking spell it _out_ for you?"

Mark drops his smoke, cursing loudly. Something falls into place that sits uneasy and leaves me with the feeling of knowing something I shouldn't, something I don't want to.

"When you put the pieces together, it makes one hell of a lot of sense," Curly says.

I wish it didn't.

* * *

><p>He snuck me out. He told me not to die on him.<p>

I blink. Mark is snoring on the other end up the couch.

"Did'ja hear?" Curly asks, and he doesn't take his eyes off the television. "Jane lit out to Washington."

I almost lodge my smoke into the back of my throat. "What?"

Curly nods, stretching his feet out over Jennings's lap and looking up at me. He looks lost, like he's finally starting to realize that the times are changing and he can't keep up. I know what Jane means to him, even if he doesn't quite know it himself—it's written all over his face. There's something inside him that's slowly breaking, slowly coming apart. It's like watching disaster strike and knowing there's nothing you can do except sit there and want so badly to put everything back in place.

"Did she say anything?"

"Peace," he says, holding up two fingers. I have the feeling there's more, but I don't press. "Peace and love—peace and motherfucking love."

I could hit someone, something. There's a war raging around everyone, sitting inside them, waiting for the right moment to erupt. Darry says I have a long fuse, don't let things get to me so easily, and I wish he was right. I wish I could keep everybody right where they belong, stop them from floating all over the globe, from leaving. It isn't fair—my parents, my brothers, my friends. There won't be anybody left before long.

"She wanted me to go with her," Curly says, and he swallows audibly.

"Why didn't you?"

He sort of smiles. "Can't leave Angie," he tells me. "Can't leave Tim. Girls come and go, and it's fucking sad, but your family is what's forever, Curtis."

He sighs.

"You don't just leave your fucking family," he says, and I think there is really something wrong that goes beyond Jane leaving and Tim being in jail. "If you ain't got your family, you ain't got fuck all, and I hope like hell you remember that."

Angela sticks her head into the room suddenly, giving Curly a wide-eyed, almost frantic look.

"There's someone at the door, Curly," she says quietly, turning off the lamp. "They're just fucking _standing_ there."

"Bullshit."

"No bullshit about it," she hisses, trying for all she's worth to keep her voice down as she flicks off the television.

Curly sits up and shakes Mark awake. He reaches under the couch cushion and pulls out a gun identical to the one Tim gave Angela.

"This is big," he says, standing up and stretching his back. I listen to the bones pop back into place and grind in their joints. "This is bigger than any of us."

"A big pain in the ass," Angela mumbles, and she reaches into her waistband, following behind Curly.

I hear the front door swing open.

Angela screams.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Outsiders; I borrow with the odd exception.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Flames are welcome. I want to say thank you to everybody that reviewed the last chapter. As always, this is dedicated to Cheap Indifference. Point out any and all mistakes. Any feedback is good feedback.

* * *

><p><em>Jan. 1969<em>

Angela's scream falls short. My ears burn, and I look between her and Curly, hearing nothing but a _thump, thump, thump _that echoes through everything.

"I swear to God…" She scratches the back of her neck. "There was _some_body there, plain as fucking day, Curly."

I can't get the thumping out of my head. She has a tight grip on her gun—one wrong move and that thing is going to go off, _bang!, _right into somebody's skull.

"It doesn't make sense," I say, mumbling because my mouth feels heavy.

"You know…" Curly trails off, and all I really want to do is shake him. Didn't anybody ever tell him not to open the door for strangers? "There are some things that just can't be explained."

_Liar, _I think. Everything has an explanation, a reason, a _because. _Curly's a fucking liar _because _he's scares; he's scared _because _his brother is in jail; his brother is in jail _because _he shot Marty; he shot Marty _because… because _I think Tim is slowly losing his goddamned mind, which is the only thing that really makes any sense anymore, and it makes me feel so sick. There's a bad taste in my mouth, a tightness in my gut. This could be the end, or something close to it. My parents would be so disappointed if they could see what I'm doing, what I'm becoming. It's too bad, really—I used to be such a good kid.

"That's fine, Curly," I tell him, mostly because I'm sick of listening to his voice, of hearing him talk. "I'm sure there are some explanations in life that you wouldn't understand, anyways."

He'd like to pump a round into my head, I can tell. I look past him, out through the open door and into all the darkness. There isn't a soul in sight, and my head keeps thundering, wondering if Angela imagined it, if maybe we're all starting to get a little funny. She looks like a maniac, waving that gun around as if she really knows what she's doing. I could laugh and cry all at once.

"Listen, man," Mark says, slamming the front door shut. "Just keep the door locked and forget about it."

"That's a great idea, Jennings," I say, looking up at the ceiling and deciding that's where the thumping is coming from. "Except I find things a little hard to forget when they're right on top of me."

* * *

><p>Their aunt is dead. She's propped up against her headboard, sagging forwards with a hole blown right through the middle of her skull. Her eyes are still open.<p>

"Jesus Christ," Angela breathes, tucking her gun into her waistband. "Just don't stand there, Charlie, for God's sake."

"I don't know what you want me to do."

She grabs a blanket and throws it over their aunt. "There," she mutters. "Problem solved."

I hear Mark gag. He has his hand over his mouth and nose, and it's almost funny that he finds death so disturbing , that the smell is too much for him.

"Do you think they're still in the house?" he asks, and I think he sounds about as scared as I've ever heard him. "How the fuck did they even get in?"

"I don't know," Curly says and bites at his nails. "I need to talk to Tim."

Angela sits at the foot of the bed. "What are we supposed to do in the mean time, huh?" She rubs her face. "Can't just leave a dead body stinking up the place."

"It's a murder ain't it, Angie?" Curly raises his eyebrows at her. "And what the hell do you do with a murder when you can't go to the police?"

"Cover it up," she says. "Like Tim always said, you cover it up."

I slide down against the wall as Mark leaves. He's cursing, kicking things over. I want to tell him to either grow the hell up or leave. I want to be in bed, worrying about trivial things like girls and school and cars, not sitting here, watching blood run down the walls and pool under their dead aunt's bed while they talk about fucking covering it up.

"How do you feel, Pone?" Angela asks me.

I shake my head, staring at the floor. "I don't."

* * *

><p>They wrapped Auntie Shepard in a tarp and stuck her in the trunk. Mark stayed behind, said he wanted to go home and feel normal for a while. I had to laugh—there's no such thing as normal.<p>

"Whuddaya suppose we do?" Angela flicks her smoke out the window. "Burn her or bury her?"

The gears grind. Curly takes a corner too fast and the body thuds against the inside of the trunk.

"Put her at the bottom of the river," he says, and he makes it sound so easy. "Put her at the bottom of the river and hope she don't come back."

"And then we're gonna get ripped." Angela twists around in her seat and smiles at me. "You're gonna get ripped with us, right, Pone?"

I shrug. "Why not?"

Maybe I can fall apart and spend weeks like Two-Bit, drunk off my ass and out of my mind, and nobody will be able to say anything other than, "That poor Curtis kid." I rub my face.

"Just dump her from the point," I say. "It'll look almost accidental, if anybody ever finds her."

Curly snickers at me. "Sure."

* * *

><p>"I don't like this, Curly," Angela tells him, staring down at her dead, tarp-wrapped aunt. "It feels almost wrong."<p>

Almost. Sometimes I envy the Shepard kids and how detached they are from everything, even themselves. I couldn't dump my dead aunt—dead anybody—and forget about it. I have this crippling little handicap called a conscience, something I'm sure every single one of the Shepards were born without. It must be so nice to act without guilt, without distinction between right and wrong and not have to worry about consequences because none of it really fucking matters. The Shepards are in a world of their own, living on some distorted version of Cloud 9.

"Grab a leg, Curtis," Curly tells me.

I stare at him, bewildered.

"Just kidding," he says, laughing like a loon. "Don't touch 'er."

Angela snickers. They start to drag her to the point, and I almost hope they all topple into the river. I can hear waves hitting the shore below us and imagine them like dark, watery hands, waiting with greed to consume the three of them.

"Was she married?" I ask, hoping to maybe find a little humanity somewhere.

"She was," Angela tells me. "Auntie Elaine her husband Lewis, and they were real fucking cute."

I lean against the car and watch them roll the body over the point and let it fall into the river. They look at each other, stoney-faced and silent as unwanted realization starts to set in. There's nothing living inside any of the Shepards. I don't know where they went wrong, if maybe they were all born with a part missing. It's almost too bad, and I wonder just what in the hell I'm doing, bumming around with people like this. I'm supposed to be smart, but Darry always says I never use my head where it really counts.

Curly offers me a smoke.

"Relax, Curtis," he says as I climb into the back seat. He looks almost apologetic. "The rate you're goin', man, you'll be grey before you're twenty."

If I make it to twenty.

* * *

><p>The porch light is on and I can hear the laugh track on the television. I lean against the railing and stare at the door, knowing that coming home is dangerous for everybody. And if I had even half a brain, I turn around and forget about going inside. My brothers aren't looking for me, aren't even asking around, because they know it's better for everyone if I stay gone.<p>

I open the door slowly and listen to the familiar squeal of rusty hinges.

Steve Randle pokes his greasy head up from the couch and looks at me as if I've just been resurrected from the dead.

"Jesus, Pone," he half yawns, stretching his back. "Where the hell have you been?"

He watches me as I sit down, and I can't for the life of me remember why I used to hate him so much.

"You look fuckin' awful, man…"

"I know," I say, and my throat is so tight it hurts to speak. I stare at the floor and feel him shift beside me. "I feel worse."

I wipe my nose on my sleeve, thinking that I might start bawling in front of Steve, one of the most notorious assholes I've ever known. It occurs to me then that I've spent so many years around him and don't know him as anything other than Soda's best friend—than the guy with nothing but built up hatred and nowhere to direct it. But somewhere beyond that—beyond his demons and his monsters and the things that keep him up at night—there's some part of him that has the capacity to be human, and it's almost unfair.

"I'm in a lot of trouble, Steve," I tell him quietly. He frowns at me, and I can't help but think his face is going to get stuck like that one of these days. I hardly ever see him smile anymore. "And I don't know what to do."

He clears his throat and squeezes my shoulder. "Trouble ain't my forte, kiddo," he says, and he sounds so sorry. "Don't reckon it's an easy fix, huh?"

I shake my head and start picking at my nails. "There's something wrong with me." I've been feeling it for a while, this cold detachment and incapability to give a shit. "I…" I trail off, trying to breathe. "Things are changing, Steve, and I can't keep up."

"You're gonna have to be a little less cryptic, Ponyboy," he says, and I can see that he honestly has no idea as to what I'm going on about. "Ask yourself this, Pone. In ten or twenty years, when you look back at this, is it going to have mattered at all?"

I laugh bitterly, rolling my eyes. "In ten or twenty years, I'll either be dead or living out a life sentence in the state pen alongside Tim Shepard," I say. "I'll be lucky if I live to see Soda and Two-Bit ship out at the end of the week."

Steve sits back, looking at me carefully. I don't think the reality has set in for him. Two of his friends are going off to war, leaving him behind to pick up the pieces and fill in the void. Nobody knows if Soda and Two-Bit are going to come back alive, come back the same. War is unnatural and does things to people. Gang fights don't mean anything in comparison—not a goddamned thing.

"What did you do?"

"I aggravated the mob, Steve," I say, getting up from the couch. I shrug and throw my jacket over Darry's recliner, watching it rock back and forth. "Tim's in jail, and people are dying, and I'm either going to jump off the 11th Street bridge, or throw myself into the Arkansas."

He turns his head to the window, and I think he might be crying, but it's too dark to tell. I realize then that he's just as scared as I am of losing people, of being alone.

"Jail is better than bein' dead, whatever you do," he mumbles. "Remember that."

"I'm real sorry, Steve," I sigh, turning for the stairs.

This house is not a home.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews would be the most awesome thing. <strong>


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